


Through the Ages

by Bridgr6



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:15:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29506059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bridgr6/pseuds/Bridgr6
Summary: Who says love only lasts a lifetime?A collection of (sort of) one-shots centered around Jorah and Daenerys meeting in different historical settings. Explores love, fate, and chance meetings.
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 25
Kudos: 38





	Through the Ages

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladymelodrama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymelodrama/gifts).



> This is a collection of one-shots centered around the idea of Jorleesi meeting each other over and over, in a variety of different historical settings. I snagged this idea from one of the requests ladymelodrama submitted in the last exchange, and I was half-temped to put the request as my summary because it’s literally perfect. I originally planned to do one chapter of very brief snapshots, butttttt I couldn’t resist the urge to expand some of them, so they each get their own chapter. As of now, I have five chapters planned, but I hope to keep this as kind of a continuous add-to project. 
> 
> To ladymelodrama – this is the thing I mentioned like forever ago. I absolutely adore this idea, so thanks for letting me borrow it :) Please consider this a small token of gratitude for all the amazing stories you create, fren <3

_It is a strange thing—love. Perhaps one of the few great mysteries to stump clever minds in every age, from past to present. This grand emotion of the heart poses too many questions, with so few of them capable of being answered in the span of a single lifetime, or two lifetimes, for that matter. It takes on many forms, false and true, disguised often as lust and dismissed often by loss. It never seems to run a perfect course from one person to the next, nor does it vanish quietly into the night in times of heartbreak. In its most vulnerable state, love can become a tangled mess of emotion that cuts and burns. It can hurt us. Change us. Leave us cradling our hearts like shards of broken glass, unable to hold onto the pieces and put them back together at the same time._

_Yet despite this capacity to inflict harm, to reduce us to our hollowest selves, we spend our lives searching for love, desperate for the chance to touch the edges of its warmth, if only for a moment. Sometimes it’s a quest that lasts a lifetime. Sometimes we discover love in unexpected places, with unexpected people, at unexpected times. And sometimes, on only the rarest of occasions, love seems to arrive right at our doorstep…waiting for us to welcome it in.  
  
_

* * *

_1876_

Daenerys smiles as her students pack up for the day. A steady hum of excitement swirls about the room, ready to burst out the door in a wave of stumbling footsteps and loud laughter. Youthful voices rise and overlap, prattling on about Annie Over, paper dolls, toy cannons, and just about anything other than what they’ve learned in class. She scolds the roughhousing near the door, albeit fondly, and rises to aid the younger students. A few of the children give farewells, a few wave, but most are quick to head out the door. Having witnessed their long, window-drawn stares all day, she doesn’t take offense at her students’ eagerness to leave. They are slipping into warmer weather now, and with it, longer days. For her students this means more time beneath the sun after lessons and chores—more playing, more dancing, more mischief. They wish to make the most of it and she can’t fault them for it, not when she wishes for much of the same.

There is something about the freshness of springtime air that makes the entire world seem softer, warmer, sweeter. Although Daenerys despises the humidity that will undoubtedly creep its way into their small schoolhouse come summer, she’s happy to be surrounded by smiling faces. Even happier at the thought of her own summertime traditions. One of which is right around the corner…

She glances at the clock impatiently.

“Miss Targaryen?”

A soft voice pulls her from her thoughts. Beside her, Shireen stands at end of the row, waiting for the other children to leave before approaching the teacher. Although Daenerys tries her best to remain fair and impartial with all her pupils, she can’t help but take special care with Shireen, the brightest of the class. She has debated sitting Shireen in the back row with the older students—for the sake of opening up a seat close to the board for the younger children—but can’t quite force herself to do so. The young girl is her only student who seems to absorb every word, in every lesson, with nothing short of keen interest. To move her would be to push aside a kindred spirit. In doing so, Daenerys would be doing an injustice to the memory of a younger self, to the little girl who had always wished for a guiding hand and steady teacher.

Daenerys smiles warmly, erasing the evidence of old worries with practiced ease. “Yes, dear?”

Shireen returns the gesture timidly, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Her fingers twist together at her waist. “Miss, I was wondering if I could take my prose and poetry book home?” she asks, before quickly clarifying, “Just for the evening, of course.”

Daenerys frowns, confused. “Shireen, you’re far enough ahead in class to spare yourself a night’s work. I wouldn’t want you to exhaust yourself unnecessarily.”

The girl blushes. “It’s not for me.” Another timid shuffle. Another glance at dirt-stained shoes. “You see, I have a friend who is learning to read—trying to, rather…and I’ve learned so much in class. I just thought it might help…”

“Say no more.” Daenerys shakes her head, relieved at such a simple request. With a conspiratorial smile, she adds, “As an educator, I couldn’t possibly turn down the opportunity to aid an eager mind.”

“Oh, thank-you! I’ll have it back by morning,” the girl promises, bouncing lightly on her heels, braids swaying behind her shoulders. She moves to collect her books.

“Why doesn’t your friend join us for class next session? Parents are more than welcome to enroll new students.”

Shireen pales a bit at that. “I don’t think that would—” But she is spared from further response, as a quiet knock pulls their attention to the door.

_Right on time_ , Daenerys thinks, recognizing the tall man in the doorway even before he removes his hat to give a slight nod. “Ladies.” His eyes soften as they jump to hers, and suddenly she’s eager to send Shireen on her way.

“Alright, well let me know what your friend thinks. Our class is always open to new students.” The girl nods, just as ready to end the conversation. “I will see you tomorrow, sweetheart.” The soft endearment slips out as Daenerys’ eyes sway to the true source of her sudden sentimentality.

There’s a victorious hop to Shireen’s step as she moves towards the door, books clutched close to her chest. She beams at their visitor. “Good Afternoon, Mr. Mormont.”

“Afternoon, Shireen,” he returns, cheek dimpling with the beginning of a smile.

When Daenerys looks up again, Shireen is gone, and Jorah still hovers in the entranceway, leaning to one side to steady himself against the doorjamb. It’s clear he’s come straight from the store, for he’s clad in his usual sack suit and four-in-hand tie. _Always put together, this one._ The slight distress to the part in his hair is the only indication that he is perhaps as tired as she feels. Still, a smile comes easily enough…soft and fond and oh so familiar. She presses her own lips together to keep from grinning. They are, after all, still vulnerable to the gossiping eye of the public.

“I suppose you’re here to ensure my safe journey home?” she asks, already knowing the answer. It’s a light game they play, one of many used to dance around their feelings for each other. All casual invitations and no obligations…even if they would both prefer more. 

“It would seem that way, yes,” he murmurs, pushing off the doorway with feigned nonchalance, as if it’s a matter of duty and duty alone. But she’s no fool, and he makes no attempt to disguise the telltale glimmer in his eyes, the one that indicates he too has eagerly awaited the end of the day for this very reason. Without further discussion, he puts his hat on and extends his hand in invitation. She places her palm in his, allowing him to lead the way down the schoolhouse steps and onto the road. Then, in a habitual echo of a hundred similar ventures, her hand slides up to the crook of his arm, and their journey begins.

This is her favorite part of day. And the best thing to come of the change in weather. It’s a tradition they started long ago, upon realizing they were, in fact, neighbors, with only a fence line between them. Having been mutual admirers from afar, it was no great leap to acquaintanceship, nor was it a rough journey to what it has become: love.

Some days Daenerys wonders if it was not a journey at all but a natural presence that fell in time with the precise moment their eyes first met—in his family’s shop, between shelves of canned food and flour, his eyes smiling at her even before his mouth could form the full expression. Most other days she forgets the deeper fate of such things and simply allows her mind to drift on an endless stream of wishing the road were a bit longer and their fence line a bit shorter.

Jorah feels the same, she knows. Even if she couldn’t see his love written so plainly in his eyes or hear it in the way he says her name, she would know it by the way he makes time for her. Always. No matter the day, no matter the hour, he finds ways to linger in her company. 

It all started with simple tasks—chopping wood for her stove, repairing the fence, helping her chase down a wayward calf. She remembers that first day, when he stood on her porch, hat clutched nervously in both hands, eyes cast downward, with the simple offer of tending to her flooded garden—but it eventually grew into longer projects that demanded entire days spent alone together.

Somewhere in between the sunrises and sunsets of a dozen, too short days, she fell in love with him. Impossibly, irreversibly, happily in love. If she tried now, she wouldn’t be able to pinpoint the exact moment her heart gave itself to his. Was it the stormy night they patched her caving roof in the pouring rain? Or the sunny afternoon he lent her his hat to keep her skin from burning, as they walked together across the fields? Or the quiet evening he sat patiently in her kitchen while she fussed over him with a homecooked meal? Perhaps it was as simple as the first time he smiled at her or took her hand. Or said her name…

For a while, she worried she would run out of excuses to keep him close. After all, there were only so many fences a man could fix, and only so many apologetic layer cakes a woman could bake in return. _Only so many minutes to the precious hour._ But it didn’t take long for Jorah to discover an infallible excuse of his own: the dangers of walking the edges of town alone. It would be downright discourteous of him not to offer to walk with her, he’d reasoned one afternoon, as they sat on her back-porch, knees touching, both cradling tins of cider. After all, he was headed in the same direction. It only made sense. And she’d nodded right along, needing no convincing, eager to play along if it meant another hour in his company.

Now, even in public, they are almost inseparable—sitting together in church, dancing together at the town festival, walking arm-in-arm down main street. _Oh, the rumors they have spurred,_ she thinks with a grin.

“Daenerys?” Jorah calls her name, peering down at her with a look that says he’s been trying to get her attention for some time.

“Yes?”

He smiles, charmed by her wandering mind. “I asked about your day.”

She presses her lips together thoughtfully. “Mmm, well, nothing too out of the ordinary. Quite a bit of daydreaming from the older crowd. Some trouble with numbers from the younger…and I did catch young Jaime Lannister tugging on Brienne Tarth’s braids again.”

He chuckles. “And?”

“Oh, I need not intervene. That girl has a way of handling things on her own.” She grins at the memory, and the thought of something else she witnessed earlier that day, or rather overhead, from the indiscreet mothers hovered outside the schoolhouse. She tilts her head to the side mischievously. “I did hear quite the rumor this morning.”

Jorah glances her way, waiting for her to continue. Any news to her is news to him, as he’s not one to mingle in social circles. Say little. Mean everything. That’s his way.

“It seems a local man—or rather, an esteemed _businessman—_ in our little town has caused quite an uproar with ideas of…it pains me to even say it… _modern literature_ ,” she shudders on the final words in jest, amplifying her dramatics in word and gesture. A playful grin rises to her lips and she practically swings from his arm with giddy affection.

He frowns. “Who told you that?”

“Oh, your secrets are not your own, Mr. Mormont. You’ve caught the attention of all the churchgoers. They fear you’ve fallen prey to devilish tricks.”

“It’s one novel—”

“The horror!” she interrupts, with another feigned gasp, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. She leans into him further.

“Daenerys—”

“The scandal!”

Jorah huffs out a laugh, amused at her antics and grateful for what appears to be her approval. With a stubbornness true to his nature, he straightens his shoulders and grumbles, “Heaven forbid I decide how to stock the shelves of my own store. No doubt the good reverend will be by tomorrow to explain the error of my ways.” He shakes his head. “This town needs a little more literature than that which bemoans the pioneering struggle. I won’t apologize for providing it.”

She nods in agreement. It’s a conversation they’ve had before, one of the many touching on shared passions and dreams. “Well, I for one am proud of our modern man,” she murmurs genuinely, giving him a light nudge with her elbow. “Rogue looks good on you, sir.” 

To hide the blush dusting his cheeks, Jorah sets his eyes on the dirt road ahead, suddenly very interested in kicking a stone out of their path. There’s a silent war in his mind, evident only in the quietness of his expression. He swallows hard. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“For me?”

He nods, squinting through rays of sunlight in a new attempt to avoid her gaze, this time relying on the sky for cover. She smiles but doesn’t comment, lest she embarrass him further. Instead, the part of her heart that beats for him, and only him, settles with a content sigh. How fortunate she is to be in the company of a man so easy to love. With a little sigh, she settles her cheek against his shoulder and wraps both hands around his arm. “Will there be romance in these novels?”

He snorts in disbelief. “Do you wish to see me run out of town?”

“Oh, I suspect people would be quite forgiving. Everyone enjoys a good love story, Jorah. Even if they won’t admit it aloud.” And certainly, she’d never allow him to be run out of town _alone_.

He cranes his neck to glance at her and his eyes seem to ask, _And you, Daenerys_? _What do you think of love stories?_ But he only says, “Yes, I suppose they do.”

The rest of the journey is filled with much of the same light conversation, but no matter how slow they walk, they eventually reach the fork in the road that divides their lands. At this precise point, the joy dissipates, and the taunting ache of possibility takes its place. It’s enough to expand longing into regret and make her very aware of how roads are short, lives are long, and the empty spaces between merciless.

Jorah comes to a slow halt, as if trying to delay the inevitable—the parting of ways. They stand in place for a moment, her arm still looped through his, both unwilling to budge.

“Thank-you for walking with me,” she finally says, taking a step to stand directly in front of him. A bit closer than necessary. Perhaps closer than proper. Hesitation plays across Jorah’s features and his gaze roves across her face, dipping to her mouth and back up again in fluid motion. Expectation rises in her chest. Hope, too. With a tender look and a soft smile, Jorah lifts his hand to brush his fingertips across the bridge of her nose, wiping away the day’s dusting of slate pencil.

“My pleasure,” he murmurs.

She swallows back disappointment. “Tomorrow, then?”

He nods, certain. “Tomorrow.”

She’s slow to turn away and even slower to put distance between. But after only a few steps, he calls out to her again.

“Daenerys?”

She whirls around quickly, taking no measures to disguise eagerness. Her quickening heartrate steals the steadiness from her voice, “Yes?”

Jorah runs a hand across the back of his neck. He takes a step forward, then stops. Another step. “I’ve been thinking—and certainly, I—what I’ve been meaning to—” He curses under his breath and shifts his hand to scratch at his chin. When his eyes finally rise to hers again, his shoulders slump sheepishly and a soft confession escapes, “I enjoy your company.” He clears his throat before continuing, “And if I thought certain...traditional words would grant me the privilege of spending each moment of every day with you, I would speak them without hesitation.”

Not for the first time that day, Daenerys bites her lip to keep a smile at bay. After a quick glance up the road to endure no one is within view, she rushes back towards him. Her palms press against his shoulders to keep balance as she lifts onto her toes and plants a kiss to his cheek. Her forehead bumps against the brim of his hat, nudging it askew, before she pulls back to take him in beneath lowered lashes. “If I thought those words came in the form of a proposal, I’d be inclined to ask for them,” she says, reaching up to straighten his hat. 

A soft, hopeful expression breaks across Jorah’s face, but his brow still dips in battle with doubt. He pulls her hands to mid-chest and cradles the bend beneath her fingertips as if they were made of glass. “I don’t have the wealth to accompany luxury, nor can I promise you the adventurous lifestyle they write stories about.”

A little scoff escapes her lips. She curls her fingertips around his and meets his gaze with new determination. “Those stories always end, Jorah…I’d much rather have the promise of forever.”

“I think I can manage that,” he says, and his smile pulls at his eyes until she can almost see a point where the sea and sky merge.

She tugs a hand from his grip and presses her index finger to his chest firmly. “Just don’t wait too long, Jorah Mormont. I’m not a woman known for patience.” _True_ , his smile seems to widen in agreement, so she fixes him with a stern look in return. “I want forever. I don’t want to wait forever.”

He tries to smother his grin with a serious nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

But she knows Jorah won’t propose that day. He’ll want to plan and rehearse to perfection, romantic soul that he is. And for her, on this one occasion, the excitement is enough to mellow impatience. But only because she knows where this particular road ends...and she can already see Jorah leading her up to the old oak between their properties, taking her hands, asking for a lifetime together, kissing her beneath a veil of falling catkins and scented blossoms…

“Good,” she agrees, flattening her hand against the front of his jacket.

It takes another long moment, but they finally part ways, each trekking the short path to their separate houses. They both glance back more than once, unable to deny the pull of fate. The inevitable. The hope of spring. The echoes linger—the feeling of her pressed against his side, the brush of his hand across her nose, her lips on his skin—and for Daenerys, the silence of an empty home vanishes.


End file.
